


Never Google Yourself

by Kryptaria



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: I Don't Even Know, M/M, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-06-29
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Devinleighbee wished to be famous, so she could read fanfic about herself.</p><p>Guess what?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Google Yourself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devinleighbee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devinleighbee/gifts).



It had started with Google — Sherlock’s innocent attempt to analyze why John’s blog had more visitors than his own scientific, logic-based site. John had no idea of the details, but apparently Google provided ‘analytics and statistics’ and whatever else a website owner needed to track such things. He could have explained that most people couldn’t _understand_ Sherlock’s site, but that risked setting off a tantrum that would do any nine-year-old proud.

So Sherlock did research and John cleaned up the flat until he realized the sound of typing had stopped. Curious, he turned to see if Sherlock had given it up as a bad job and was now sulking on the couch, but no... He was hunched over his laptop, eyes practically glowing, they were fixed so intently on the screen.

Curious, John went to see what he was reading, only to be subjected to Sherlock’s brain-eating glare. He went back to the kitchen to see what they had for dinner, thinking that if the army could somehow weaponize Sherlock’s glare, Afghanistan would no longer be a problem.

“Sherlock, all we’ve got is beans on —”

“What’s ‘A U’?”

John turned from the cupboard, his mind struggling with that. “Gold, isn’t it? You’re the one with the periodic table in your bedroom.”

“That’s ‘Au’,” Sherlock scoffed. John heard no difference, but that meant nothing when it came to whatever was going on in Sherlock’s mind.

John took down a can of beans and the half loaf of bread remaining in the cupboard. They’d had several discussions about using bread as a growth medium for experimentation. The bread wasn’t fuzzy, though, so John figured maybe Sherlock had finally understood the concept of ‘house rules’. Cheered by the thought, he popped four slices into the toaster and went to find the can opener.

“Oh,” Sherlock said a short while later. “Alternate universe.”

“God, you’re not doing quantum physics now, are you?” John asked, looking back to see Sherlock’s gaze was now lasered in on him.

“You don’t _look_ like a werewolf.”

John’s mind stuttered and skipped over processing that. Finally he settled for a civilized, non-committal response: “Thank you.” He went back to searching for the can opener.

 

~~~

 

The innocent suggestion had come as John delivered a plate to Sherlock, hoping to distract him into eating without realizing it.

“Read this. You’re a doctor. Is this anatomically possible?” Sherlock asked skeptically, twisting the laptop just a bit, clearly intent on reading along with John.

Curious, John crouched beside him, balancing his own plate on his knee. “What am I —” was as far as he got, as three things occurred to him in rapid succession.

1\. Sherlock was reading pornography.

2\. Sherlock’s name was _in_ the pornography. As in, featured. A participant.

3\. The other participant was apparently none other than John Watson.

 

~~~

 

John leaned over the back of Sherlock’s chair, fingers digging into the leather. He _still_ couldn’t believe what he’d read. About him. And - and _Sherlock_ \- and now the images were _in his head_.

“Have you found anything?” he asked, his voice the mild, calm voice that had served him so well in the military. He was an officer; he wasn’t going to let this rattle him.

“I’m trying!” Sherlock snapped, never looking away from the screen. Whatever he was doing made no sense to John; windows were flashing open, and it looked like a stream of numbers flying up from the bottom of the screen, as if this were a scene out of _The Matrix_. His hands were steady, long fingers as graceful now as when they coaxed music from the mundane strings and wood of his violin.

Strong, beautiful hands. How many times had they caught John to drag him along on another mad chase? Touched a shoulder to gently ease John’s nightmares? Even, on one memorable occasion, stitched the scar that now decorated John’s right shoulder, the scar where John had taken a knife after pushing Sherlock out of the way…

And really, was it that much of a leap to imagine the _other_ things those hands could do? Other touches in other places, fingers following the path that Sherlock’s gaze would take first, because he did _nothing_ without information. God, being under that stare while protected by layers of clothes felt like Sherlock was rifling through his brain, reading every thought and secret. But those hands, stripping off John’s clothes to expose _everything_ … Those fingers, touching -

 _God, stop!_ Exhaling sharply, John forced himself away and went to get tea. Tea would fix this.

But he hadn’t even reached the kettle before Sherlock barked out, “John!” He was back at Sherlock’s side in seconds, leaning over to regard the indecipherable hieroglyphics on the computer screen.

“What am I looking at?” John asked, painfully conscious of Sherlock’s body heat and the smell of his soap. Leaning over like this, John could move his hand a half inch and touch the soft curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. His arm brushed the silk sleeve of Sherlock’s dressing gown. It was tied loosely closed over a T-shirt (worn inside-out again) and pyjama pants and -

 _Stop!_ John told himself more firmly, though it didn’t seem to be helping.

Sherlock pointed at the screen and turned. He seemed about to say something, but stopped, as though surprised to find John so close. His pale blue eyes were very wide, and as John stared, helpless to look away, Sherlock’s gaze skittered over his face, fixing for one breathless moment on his lips.

“John,” Sherlock said, very quietly now, shifting that last half inch as he tipped his head back, looking up at John.

Sherlock’s hair was softer than John had ever imagined. And he _had_ imagined it, he thought guiltily, remembering those late nights when they’d made it back to the flat after a breathless chase, giddy with the high of victory, of being _alive_.

John’s hand moved, with no conscious control, fingers threading through those curls.

Slowly, Sherlock leaned into the touch as his lashes fell, as if by closing off his sight, he could better concentrate.

 _You’re not doing this, Watson,_ John told himself. _Just because you read some story on the internet - You will let go. Now. RIGHT NOW._

His fingers twisted, tugging gently on the strands.

Sherlock’s lips parted.

The sound that emerged was like a shot of adrenaline slammed right into John’s veins. He could no more resist leaning down to claim that gasp, to silence it with a kiss, than he could resist the pull of gravity.

The kiss was soft and gentle, a barely-there touch that swept John’s mind clean of every thought but _Sherlock_. It ended naturally, easily, and Sherlock let out a quiet sigh.

When Sherlock blinked his eyes open, the pale blue was nearly gone, showing only as pale rings around pupils black as night. John could lose himself in those eyes forever.

“John,” Sherlock breathed. He shook his head, and the curls slipped free of John’s grasp. More steadily, he said, “John. _Later_.”

 _Later,_ John thought, the word soaring through him and taking flight. Because it wasn’t _stop_ or _no_ or _don’t_ but _later_. God, Sherlock wanted to do _this_ \- whatever _this_ was - again.

“Right,” he agreed, the word coming out raspy and harsh. He swallowed and licked his lips and nodded. “Right,” he said more strongly. “What did you find?”

“Just this,” Sherlock said, and John couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride at the way Sherlock’s voice sounded cracked. Turning away as if hiding his face, Sherlock tapped at the screen again. “This. Devin. Apparently, she - or he; not sure which - is called Devinleighbee. I’ve no idea what this ‘consulting Hufflepuff’ is. A type of fish?”

“I’ll explain later,” John said, looking forward to Sherlock’s logic-based objections over Harry Potter. He dared to rest a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “So now what?”

“What do you mean, _now what?_ ” Sherlock asked scathingly. “Now we find out why this _Devin_ is so obsessed with us. I’ll hack the account, find a real name, get a phone number. Do you have your mobile? I’ll need you to send a text,” he said rapidly, losing himself in the electronic pursuit once more.

John smiled fondly, realizing that he really did love his mad flatmate. And somehow, it wasn’t surprising that it took a story on a website for him to realize it.

Sherlock was still typing and muttering, his eyes glittering fiercely, entirely engaged in the mental puzzle. But he never tried to pull his shoulder away from John’s touch, and for now, that was enough.

 

~~~

 

“I want to see,” Sherlock said, pressing the words against John’s throat as buttons went flying. John wanted to say something about this shirt being a favorite, but then Sherlock’s hands — those _fingers_ — were pressed against his ribs, and all rational thought crumbled.

“Fine. It’s fine,” John reassured inanely, dropping his hands long enough for Sherlock to push the shirt over his shoulders and onto the floor. Immediately, Sherlock went for the nest of scar tissue just below John’s left collarbone, tracing it with fingers and tongue, and John’s knees almost buckled. He wasn’t sensitive there — quite the opposite, after the nerve damage — but _God_.

“How do they _know?_ ” Sherlock demanded, rising from his slight crouch.

“Know wha — _Ungh,_ ” he groaned, wondering how the _fuck_ Sherlock knew to bite _right there,_ into the upper curve of the trapezius.

Sherlock made a pleased sound and dragged his tongue slowly up the side of John’s neck. “It worked; they were right. And you _do_ taste good.”

John had to get some sort of control over this. Sherlock was — well, he _probably_ was a virgin or inexperienced or at least out of practice, though dear God, that was his ear, and Sherlock’s teeth tugging on the lobe, sending shivers straight through John’s body. It occurred to him, in the distant part of his mind that could still put thoughts together, that Sherlock didn’t need _experience_. He just needed to experiment to learn everything there was to know about John’s likes and dislikes, and then he’d be able to systematically take John apart, one nerve at a time.

Which was probably the hottest thing John had ever even imagined.

But still, this was too much, too fast. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to stop and regret and maybe _leave_. Sherlock’s friendship meant too much to John.

“Sherlock,” he gasped, clutching at his shoulders. He tried to prise Sherlock off, but that just made Sherlock push back. His arms wound around John’s back, fingers trailing down his spine, and one leg circled John’s, and his hips pushed forward. _Oh, God,_ John thought wildly, because he was hard. They were _both_ hard. And suddenly his jeans and Sherlock’s pyjamas and everything else between them was too much.

“What?”

“What what?” John asked blankly.

“You interrupted.” It came out as a complaint. Sherlock leaned back enough to look into John’s eyes. “Why?”

 _Because I’m an idiot,_ he thought, before remembering that he legitimately had wanted to say something. Oh, right.

“Text,” he said, and then shook his head, thinking he should clarify. “You wanted me to send a text.”

“You _didn’t?_ ” Sherlock huffed in irritation and looked down. Then he cocked his head thoughtfully to the side, lips curving up in that I-know-something-you-don’t way of his, and he went right for John’s belt.

“You didn’t actually _say_ anything. Do you want to... get that out of the way?” John asked, his enthusiasm for the idea diminishing swiftly as Sherlock got the belt unbuckled and started working at his flies.

“Yes! What are you waiting for?”

Rolling his eyes, John started to turn so he could get his mobile, only to nearly trip and kill himself as Sherlock shoved John’s blue jeans down over his hips. “Stop!” John barked, and Sherlock gave him a shocked look.

Then Sherlock’s eyes closed, and his whole body _shivered_. “So _that’s_ what they meant,” he said, his voice low and heavy and almost _purring_.

John desperately wanted to ask, but he had to contend with his jeans and pants and the fact that he was still wearing his shoes. He shuffled the two steps to Sherlock’s armchair and let himself fall to the cushion. His mobile was on the table — Sherlock had nicked it some time during his search for their internet fan’s phone number. “What’s the number?”

Sherlock rattled off an international number — America, John thought. He’d learned to type in numbers quickly; Sherlock got impatient with repeating himself. Hoping he’d got it right, he asked, “What do you — Sherlock?”

With a dramatic sweep of his dressing gown (seriously, the man was two hundred years past his time; he needed to live in tight doublets and flowing cloaks) Sherlock had dropped to his knees at John’s feet.

“Explain your interest in this fanfic and send more recs,” Sherlock said, wrapping one hand around John’s ankle. With the other hand, he started working John’s shoe off his foot, not bothering to untie the laces.

“Sorry?” John asked, his mind gone blank all over again.

Sherlock glared up at him. “Send it!”

How did things like this happen to him? John sighed and gave in, as always, typing out the first part of the message, with edits to smooth out the prickly edges of Sherlock’s personality:

_Devin, We found your story website and had some questions. Could you please explain why you’re interested in this particular fan fic and send more —_

“Send more what? W-r-e-c-k-s?” he asked.

Having won the battle with John’s shoes, Sherlock was peeling off his socks now. “R-e-c-s, John. Recommendations. It’s their slang. And ‘fanfic’ is one word.”

“Right. Of course,” John muttered, trying to find the back arrow button so he could make the appropriate corrections.

“Lift.”

Sherlock was prodding at John’s hips, and he shifted to raise his body up before he entirely realized what he was doing. It didn’t sink in until the elastic of his pants caught dangerously, though he wasn’t _quite_ as hard as he was, now that Sherlock was no longer writhing against him like a sensuous, demanding cat.

“Careful!” John warned, tugging at the elastic.

“Oh, you’re still — _Oh,_ ” Sherlock breathed, forgetting about the pants, leaving them halfway down John’s thighs.

“You’d think you’d never seen an — _Nngh._ ” John hit the Send button, not even sure if he’d finished the text, and let the phone fall from nerveless fingers as Sherlock bent his head and _licked_. “Christ, Sherlock,” he breathed.

Sherlock paused long enough to ask, “Did you send it?”

“Yes!” John buried his hands in Sherlock’s hair, though he managed to keep it polite, just petting those curls instead of tugging Sherlock’s head back down.

“Good. Let me know if I do this properly. I think most of what I read was written by women, so their accuracy is questionable at best,” he prompted, and licked again.

Breathless, John could only nod, thinking that might well have been the sexiest thing anyone had ever said to him.


End file.
